


the divine perfection.

by katsukifatale (TrumpetGeek)



Series: yuri!!! on zines [7]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Paint Kink, Painting, Topping from the Bottom, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 15:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15731796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrumpetGeek/pseuds/katsukifatale
Summary: Phichit had once caught Yuuri alone in the art studio secretly mixing different blue acrylics together, trying to find the exact shade of the blue of Viktor’s eyes. He’d teased him about it mercilessly as Yuuri scrubbed his palette clean and retreated into the paints closet out of sheer embarrassment. Yuuri wonders how he’d gone from that to having the man himself insist on helping him find the spark that’s missing from his painting.





	the divine perfection.

**Author's Note:**

> konnichiwassup i come bearing a fic i wrote for [yoi litmag first issue](https://yoilitmag.tumblr.com/tagged/issue-1) nsfw appendicks. the theme for this issue was light, and i got to pair up with the amazing [bracari](http://bracari.tumblr.com/). when she posts i'll link to her work here!
> 
> special thanks to n3rdlif343va for getting me through this rough patch and reassuring me that my writing is not rubbish <3

 

 

_ The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection. - Michelangelo _

 

 

 

Yuuri settles behind his favorite easel — the one with one leg just a tad bit shorter than the rest — with Phichit at the easel to his right. It’s lopsided but he likes it best because of the way the light from the open windows falls onto the canvas at this hour of the afternoon, bathing it in bright white and deep shadow. Most of the other students are still milling about, getting ready for the class; Yuuri takes a moment to lay out his brushes, to sharpen his charcoal, the motion of the stick across his sandpaper sharpener soothing and familiar.

 

 

Figure painting is his forte, even though he doesn’t think he’s especially great at it; he doesn’t find it as awkward or intimidating as some of his classmates seem to when faced with very human and very naked subjects. Rather, he finds bodies to be beautiful in any shape, size and color they come, loves all the little imperfections.

 

 

He supposes growing up in an onsen does have its advantages.

 

 

“Good afternoon, class,” Professor de Bruijn says cheerfully, clapping his thick hands together for attention. “There’s a slight change to the syllabus today. I’m sure you all know Viktor Nikiforov.”

 

 

Of course they know Viktor Nikiforov, anyone who’s been involved in the fine arts department at Wayne State for five minutes knows who Viktor is.

 

 

He’s the unfairly gorgeous darling of the department, the senior professors like de Bruijn would do almost anything to keep close. If rumors are to be believed, he’s the campus’s resident playboy too, the man who draws people close to him with his lopsided smile and handsome face and leaves a trail of broken hearts sighing in his wake. He’s the man who paints like his brush is magic, beautifully-defined strokes and colors like he invented the concept of chiaroscuro itself.

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is the man who is going to do great things, go great places.

 

 

Three years in the program and they still have yet to meet formally, because Yuuri is a small-fry artist lost in a sea of talent and an anxious mess; he doesn’t count lingering awkwardly at the edges of those parties the arts department throws to encourage mingling after exhibitions or the one time he drank just enough champagne to feel bold enough to make eye contact. Viktor himself is too much — too flirty, too beautiful, too talented — and Yuuri is too anxious to really become part of those transactions. Something about Viktor and his art and his glacier eyes make the heartbeat kick up in Yuuri’s chest, make his palms sweaty, his face red. It’s _too_ _much_ , but he wants more of that electric feeling, wants to somehow find a way to transcribe it into his lifeless paintings.

 

 

His painting just isn’t  _ good _ enough —

 

 

“Yuuri,” Phichit hisses next to him, his head ducked to hide behind his canvas. Yuuri scares out of his thoughts so badly he drops the paintbrush he’s holding directly onto the dirty floor.

 

 

“What,” he hisses back, glaring up at his best friend. He bends down to retrieve the brush and maybe go wash it off again in the sink, but his hand hits warm skin instead of smooth wood and linoleum. He follows the length of his own arm down to where his hand is lying atop someone else’s, and then up a porcelain-colored, absolutely stunning specimen of a human male forearm, an equally stunning bicep and shoulder, and stops on a pair of brilliant blue eyes.

 

 

He swallows as realization sets in, his throat clicking drily.

 

 

“Alexander could not be with us today due to a schedule conflict, so Mr Nikiforov has graciously agreed to step up in his place,” Professor de Bruijn says helpfully, as if the awkward situation in front of him isn’t occurring. “Viktor is usually the one behind the easel, so please make him feel welcome this week.”

 

 

Phichit had once caught Yuuri alone in the studio secretly mixing different blue acrylics together, trying to find the exact shade of the blue of Viktor’s eyes. He’d teased him about it mercilessly as Yuuri scrubbed his palette clean and retreated into the paints closet out of sheer embarrassment.

 

 

That embarrassment is infinitesimal compared to the  _ absolute mortification _ he’s feeling staring into Viktor’s  _ actual eyes _ . His traitorous brain spends a moment thinking about how he wasn’t actually that far off with his color mixing back then before he realizes Viktor is bent at the waist at an awkward angle because Yuuri is still holding his hand captive. He shoots up immediately, nearly knocking heads with Viktor, his dirty paint brush clutched in his white-knuckled fist.

 

 

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Uh, sorry. I’m sorry. Um.”

 

 

Viktor just straightens up and smiles, his teeth pearly white, and hands him a clean paintbrush to use.

 

 

“Not a problem at all,” he says, his voice smooth and deep like syrup. He turns away and Yuuri is extremely grateful that Viktor is content to just pretend Yuuri’s not the heinously awkward creature he really is.

 

 

(He just hopes Viktor will extend that graciousness to him for the rest of class.)

 

 

Viktor — Yuuri’s idol, god, he is going to spend all week embarrassing himself — situates himself on the little dais and after a beat lets his robe slip down his shoulders, the soft blue of it collecting on the floor at his feet.

 

 

Yuuri blinks.

 

 

Viktor is  _ stunning _ .

 

 

Yuuri lets his eyes trail, down from the pale column of his neck to his wide shoulders, following the shape and shadows of his collarbones to the little divot at the base of his throat where his bones meet in the middle. Down the curves of Viktor’s chest, his dusty pink nipples. Follows the line of his stomach, the angles of his hip bones and the corded muscles of his thighs, the fine bones of his flexing feet. Soft, silver hair curling and catching the light between his legs.

 

 

There’s a small mark — maybe a mole — down by his left hip.

 

 

His hand hovers over the charcoal, but after a moment of indecision he bypasses it, reaching instead for the brush Viktor had given him. He’d loaded his palette with beiges and browns already, but now he picks up on the purple beneath Viktor’s eyelids and the red of his ears as the sunlight filters through the thin skin there. He gets to work mixing, swirling his bristles through, letting his surroundings slough away until there’s only his palette, his canvas, and Viktor’s pretty pale skin.

 

 

It settles him a bit, knowing that Viktor isn’t perfect — that he’s human, too, like the rest of them. That he’s got a mole, that his right foot is slightly more knobbly than his left, that his ears aren’t quite symmetrical. Yuuri takes a deep breath, and then another, and then falls into the cadence of his own brushstrokes, spreading Viktor’s colors across the stark white.

 

 

He loves painting. There’s something relaxing about the frictionless glide of paint on canvas; something soothing in the blend of it. He loves the silken feeling of it between his fingers, watching the new colors run from between the bristles after class, the cracks of it caught beneath his nails. 

 

 

He glances up, meets Viktor’s blue eyes and feels a tingle of electricity run through his bones, his muscles.

 

 

Just for a moment, he wonders what Viktor’s skin will feel like between his fingers, too.

 

 

(Afterward, Viktor, his robe back on and falling carelessly down one shoulder, glances around the edge of his canvas, face serious, thoughtful.

 

 

“It’s good,” he says, “really good. Missing something though.”

 

 

Yuuri knows, but he doesn’t know _what_ , and that’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?

 

 

Viktor flashes him the smallest of smiles. “I can help.”

 

 

He doesn’t offer his help to anyone else. Yuuri watches him saunter out of the classroom and wonders why.)

 

 

* * *

 

The first time they meet up in the art studio for tutoring, Yuuri walks in to find Viktor standing in the center of the (unlocked) room already naked. He’s so shocked that he turns around and walks right back out.

 

 

(The second time, Viktor is so cautious around him that it makes his chest ache. He’s so beautiful though, in his almost-touches, his hesitant gazes, his soft-bitten lip.

 

 

“I want you to be here,” Yuuri tells him, a little helpless as they stand hip to hip at the sink, washing out their brushes. “I just don’t want you to see my weaknesses.”

 

 

Viktor puts his brushes down in the bottom of the sink and leans against it for a moment. He smiles when he looks up, but his eyes are serious, and for just a moment Yuuri allows himself to fall into them. “I  _ am _ here. I’m here to give you the confidence you need to turn your weaknesses into your greatest weapons.”)

 

 

It gets easier after that, now that Yuuri knows Viktor is really here; for whatever reason, for however long,  _ here _ . He learns — more about painting, more about Viktor — than he ever expected to in these short meetings. He learns the profile of Viktor’s long, slender nose and the sharpness of his jaw. He learns that Viktor’s favorite color is actually a tie between pink and purple, that he’s actually really passionate about Stuart Semple, Animal Crossing, and action painting. He learns the graceful movements of Viktor’s pale wrists when he paints delicate brushstrokes and when he gets excited enough to talk with his hands. 

 

 

He watches Viktor bloom when they’re alone together like this, nothing but globs of paint and spattered canvases; feels the way _he_ blooms in response.

 

 

Even Phichit has noticed, commenting on Yuuri’s smile, his upturned chin when he comes home at night.

 

 

There’s no confidence boost quite as powerful as Viktor Nikiforov’s soft smiles and undivided attention. It’s no wonder people are drawn to him, if he treats them all the way he treats Yuuri.

 

 

* * *

 

It happens the eighth time they meet.

 

 

It’s a bad day. He’d done poorly on an exam the day before, hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about all of the answers he missed. He’d missed the bus earlier and had been late enough that he hadn’t been able to eat lunch.

 

 

It gets the better of him in the middle of painting Viktor’s hands for figure practice. Viktor’s spent their session standing over Yuuri’s shoulder, making dissatisfied noises and looking at his canvas with that furrow between his brows that he gets when he’s unhappy with what he’s seeing. 

 

 

After an hour, Yuuri puts down his paintbrush and sighs.

 

 

“Yuuri?”

 

 

“You’re unhappy with something I’m doing.”

 

 

Viktor shifts, looking uncomfortable. “I’m not unhappy, Yuuri. I just — think — you’re having a bad day.”

 

 

“Am I?” he asks lightly.

 

 

Viktor winces, and it’s that more than anything that sets him off.

 

 

He picks up his paintbrush still full of paint and flicks it directly in Viktor’s face. It hits him right in his wide forehead, in the whorl of his hair.

 

 

Viktor stares at him with such shock that it makes Yuuri feel strangely proud of himself.

 

 

“Did you really just fling paint at me?” he sputters.

 

 

Yuuri gives him a long, slow look and grins.

 

 

(It happens the eighth time they meet.)

 

 

One moment Yuuri is stewing in his own irritation, and the next they’re hurling paint at each other, blobs of beige and red and blue mixing between them, on their clothes and in their hair, making the floor slick in patches. It’s freeing, exhilarating, to feel so open and vulnerable with someone who aren’t his parents or Phichit.

 

 

“We’re going to have to clean this up tonight,” Yuuri points out afterward. He leans against the sink and surveys the mess with a sigh.

 

 

“Excuse me, what do you mean ‘we’? _You’re_ the one who started it,” Viktor says. He takes up residence against the sink too, close enough to Yuuri to touch from shoulder to hip. “Watch, this’ll probably be our last meeting. This is going to get back to de Bruijn because  _ of course _ it will, and he’s going to pass a decree that Viktor Nikiforov can’t be alone with Katsuki Yuuri in the art room ever again.”

 

 

Viktor keeps talking, spinning some kind of exaggerated tale of ‘what ifs’ that Yuuri can’t be bothered to pay attention to because —

 

 

Viktor’s got paint on his cheek. Royal purple, just beneath his left eye.

 

 

Yuuri reaches up absent-mindedly to wipe it off, and Viktor falls silent, his eyes wide as he lets Yuuri trace the pads of his fingers along his unfairly high cheekbone. He trails down his cheek, following the line of his jaw down the the paint-spattered column of his neck, threading his fingers through his silky hair. Mesmerized. Viktor —

 

 

Leans into it, like he’s starved for Yuuri’s touch. His eyes flutter closed, his long lashes sweeping down, his breath coming out in a soft, sweet sigh against the sensitive inside of Yuuri’s wrist. He cradles Viktor’s head with one hand; the other comes up, thumb pressing at his chin, parting Viktor’s pink lips.

 

 

“Yuuri,” he breathes. “Kiss me.”

 

 

“Okay,” he says, equally soft, and does.

 

 

Viktor’s lips are chapped, probably from being bitten all evening, but still soft, still pliant, still warm. He moves languidly, savoring the feel and flavor of Viktor’s mouth, hand in his hair and nose full of the smell of Viktor’s skin and paint, warm puffs of breath over his skin. He presses feather soft kisses, one after the other, to the corner of his mouth, to his plush bottom lip — little brushes that make Viktor’s hands abandon their place at the sink and settle on Yuuri’s hips instead. Wet tongue prying him open with gentle licks, flicking against the roof of Viktor’s mouth, curling and dragging and  _ good _ .

 

 

Viktor moans, softly, needy enough to have Yuuri hardening in his pants like a teenager, his fingers kneading at his hips and waist above his clothes. Yuuri’s mouth opens further, his tongue sliding along Viktor’s, rapidly losing control.

 

 

(It happens the eighth time they meet.)

 

 

Strong, slender hands follow the seams of his sleeves, fingers ghosting against the skin on his neck and playing with the tips of his hair. There’s something sweet in the way Viktor leans in, eager and desperate, his cheek smeared with royal purple. Something sweet in the way he breathes against Yuuri’s mouth, a long sigh he hides behind a kiss. Sweet, heady presses of lips that make Yuuri close his eyes against the sensation of Viktor’s wet mouth.

 

 

They stumble to the floor, the sink no longer enough to hold them up in the onslaught. It’s happening so fast but Yuuri has never wanted anything more than Viktor’s taste on his tongue. He sits up, legs spread across Viktor’s lap, and takes off his glasses. Takes off his shirt. Takes Viktor’s off, too, sliding his hands up underneath the hem along all of the delicious dips and divots of Viktor’s muscles. He licks Viktor’s freckled collarbones and rakes his teeth sharp across a pretty pink nipple, all that pretty soft skin under his tongue after weeks of staring at it and Viktor’s heart beating fast against his mouth. He wants to see more of that gorgeous pigment spread across the canvas of Viktor’s skin.

 

 

Viktor touches his waist, skin on sweat slick skin, and Yuuri can’t help the shaky moan that slips out. Viktor’s hands are big and warm, his fingers pressed into the dimples at in his lower back, and they make him think absolutely filthy thoughts. These are the hands that create universes. He grabs one, fingers threading through, playing, and touches his lips to the knuckles, nipping them with his teeth. There’s still paint on Viktor’s fingers so he can’t suck them into his mouth like he wants to, but Viktor’s eyes turn dark and Yuuri thinks,  _ next time _ .

 

 

He’s impatient, wanting to feel that skin to skin contact all over, Viktor’s hands on him not nearly enough. He grinds down, rubs his hips against Viktor’s, watches the way those pretty eyelashes flutter. Viktor is intoxicating like this, a beautiful cocktail of arousal and submission beneath the flex and jerk of Yuuri’s hips, the soft pads of his fingers.

 

 

He makes quick work of Viktor’s jeans, his underwear, his socks; lets Viktor make quick work of his, too, laughing when Viktor tosses them away like he can’t stand them any longer. When they come together again there’s nothing between them, and it feels so good to finally feel Viktor’s naked cock sliding against his.

 

 

“God,  _ Yuuri _ ,” Viktor groans, choking out his name, his fingers turning to vices where they grip at Yuuri’s hips. Yuuri bites his lip, heat coursing through his blood at the desperate look on Viktor’s face. It feels good, but not anywhere near enough. He wants more.

 

 

“Lube,” he murmurs, voice thick against Viktor’s mouth. He doesn’t really want to use petroleum jelly — but he wants Viktor inside him so badly at this point he doesn’t particularly care. He makes to grab it from the scatter of their art supplies when Viktor stops him.

 

 

“I’ve got some in my wallet — a condom too,” he says. “Let me — just —”

 

 

Viktor half-rolls onto his side to fish his wallet out of his jeans from where they’d been tossed, and Yuuri goes with him, moaning quietly at the feeling of Viktor’s thighs and hips flexing underneath him. He’s so solid, heavy muscle and tight skin.

 

 

Yuuri wants to  _ devour _ him.

 

 

There’s not enough time — not enough time to put his mouth on Viktor’s cock, to set his teeth in the flesh of Viktor’s ass, to feel Viktor’s fingers pulling his hair and Viktor’s thighs wrapping around his face. There’s not enough time for all of the things Yuuri wants to do for him,  _ to _ him, so Yuuri settles instead for sitting up on Viktor’s lap and ripping open the packet of lube with his teeth.

 

 

Viktor moans at the sight, his eyes following the way Yuuri’s fingers disappear behind his back and down, sinking wetly into his ass. He moans quietly at the feeling of the stretch. In and out, in and out; crook and twist and wring the wrecked moans from his own throat. Viktor struggles to sit up, to press incendiary kisses to the side of Yuuri’s throat, the apples of his flushed cheeks, teeth and tongue making a mess of his salt-slick skin.

 

 

When he slides down on Viktor’s cock, he does it all at once, a slow burning drag that fills him up and makes the breath stutter in his chest. Viktor is warm and pliant beneath him, bottom lip between his teeth and eyes half-lidded like he’s fighting not to come right then and there. His hands grip at Yuuri’s hips like he’s a lifeline, like he’s trying to drag him closer and closer still, a shivery sigh shaking loose from his throat.

 

 

“ _ God _ , Yuuri, you feel so good,” Viktor moans. Yuuri chokes out a moan in response at the heat in Viktor’s voice. Sweat drips from his face and his arms shake with the effort of keeping himself supported and still, trying to allow himself time to adjust to something bigger and longer than his own fingers. He doesn’t want it though; he relishes the weight of Viktor’s cock inside him, the feeling of almost unbearable fullness between his legs. He tightens his inner muscles and Viktor groans, hips jerking helplessly.

 

 

He relishes that, too.

 

 

Yuuri rises up on Viktor’s lap and then comes back down, has them both moaning for how good it feels. He does it again, leaning on Viktor’s chest and fucking himself on Viktor’s cock; they start an urgent rhythm like this — long, deep,  _ hard _ strokes that leaves him whimpering with each press of Viktor’s cock against his prostate.

 

 

“Ah — ah,  _ Viktor _ — ”

 

 

The art studio is filled with the obscene sounds of their sex — the slap of their hips coming together, Viktor’s covetous moans, his own staccato gasps of pleasure on each in-stroke. Even the soft brush of Viktor’s hands on his chest and stomach, sliding through sweat, adds to the symphony. Yuuri’s focus starts to narrow, down to the flood of pleasure in his belly and the hot, hard drag of Viktor’s cock in his ass.

 

 

Viktor’s hand moves in between his legs, tracing the creases of his hips and down to where they’re connected. When he takes Yuuri’s aching cock in his hand and begins to stroke, Yuuri tosses his head back and groans, lets himself streak Viktor’s chest and stomach with his come. He grits his teeth through the burning pleasure and listens to Viktor groan against his temple as Yuuri’s muscles spasm around his cock. He feels consumed by the urgent press and grind of Viktor’s hips as he falls after him, knuckles white on Yuuri’s hips and cock buried deep inside.

 

 

Sweat slides down his face and drips onto Viktor’s heaving chest. Viktor reaches up with a shaking arm and brushes the hair off of Yuuri’s forehead as he shudders, sighing when Yuuri  turns his face to kiss his palm. He realizes he’s partially collapsed on Viktor and doesn’t fight him when Viktor presses a hand in the center of his back, pressing him down to lie fully on top of him.

 

 

It’s intimate, personal, like a secret shared, and Yuuri can’t stop shaking.

 

 

“I’m here. Okay?” Viktor asks, his voice gravelly hoarse. His lips drag across Yuuri’s cheek.

 

 

“Mm. Tutor me forever,” he says, pressing his cheek against Viktor’s chest, his body shaking with the sound of Viktor’s gentle laughter.

 

 

The moonlight filters in through the windows. The world is full of color.

 

 

(This is what he’s been missing.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at [katsukifatale](http://katsukifatale.tumblr.com/) or at [trumpet-geek](http://trumpet-geek.tumblr.com/)!


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